


Beggars Can't Be Choosers

by verity



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: F/M, Romance, Supernatural - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-01-24
Updated: 2010-01-02
Packaged: 2017-10-05 15:55:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 18,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/43404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verity/pseuds/verity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hermione is Head Girl, Ron is in Egypt, and Harry still hasn't defeated Voldemort. However, Hermione's more concerned about her new neighbour...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> **Beggars Can't Be Choosers**

**Beggars Can't Be Choosers**

by Verity

Prologue

_(Title is a small homage to Nancy Kress's delightful Beggars in Spain, if in name only.)_

* * *

A.L. Dumbledore

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

Scotland, UK

July 5, 1995

Dear Severus,

I regret to inform you…

* * *

Severus Snape

Malfoy Manor

Yorkshire, UK

July 6, 1995

Albus-

Thank you for inquiring after my health. I assure you, the Mark is not causing me as much pain as I had feared; if I need to, I will owl Madam Pomfrey for some materials from my stores. I am sure that she can manage at least that menial of a task under your competent direction.

The true point of my reply - I regret having to upset your arrangements, but I fear that I simply _cannot_ lodge in Orion Tower. I understand that my laboratories also received some, though less grievous, damage from Peeves' latest joke with the plumbing. Am I to see to their repair from six stories above? Not to say that your decision wasn't in the best interests of all concerned, of course.

I am sorry if I sound somewhat harsh. Spending a few minutes in the company of a Malfoy is a trial for even the most insensitive of men… thank Merlin the Dark Lord has decided to finish off this Meet by the end of the week. The Order should find of use the information attached – any replies sent by stealth owl should reach me.

I will respect your judgment, whether you feel the need to heed my admittedly frivolous whims as to my rooms or not. However, I will remind you – Orion is somewhat uncomfortably near Gryffindor Tower.

Yours truly,

Severus

* * *

A.L. Dumbledore

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

Scotland, UK

July 7, 1995

Dear Severus,

I am sorry to disappoint you, but the only living quarters in the dungeons besides yours are in such a dreadful state of disrepair that it is entirely unfeasible that you take residence there. Besides, the mice enjoy their nest behind the velvet hangings.

As for your rooms – while the plumbing has been return to its usual state of genial disgruntlement, and is none the worse for the wear (so Myrtle tells me), I fear that the rooms themselves are simply not salvageable! It is fortunate neither your closet's contents nor your library were not damaged badly, though I cannot say the same for your other furnishings.

Winky has been most helpful in decorating your new quarters – I think she's taken quite a liking to you!

Albus 


	2. Prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beggars Can't Be Choosers

Beggars Can't Be Choosers

by Verity

Chapter One September 1, 1997

            Hermione Granger silently cursed whatever architect had designed Hogwarts. He (or she, though she rather thought it was the former) had been a rather sadistic bastard and completely incapable of constructing a room for Gryffindor's Head Girl (when it had one) without a long passageway full of several flights of stairs leading to it… which she was dutifully ascending at the moment. _At least you've got your own room_, she reminded herself. Though at this point, she wasn't quite sure if she was in Gryffindor Tower at all.

            Finally, rounding the umpteenth corner of the long, winding corridor, she found the door.

            It was a singular piece of wood – carved as if it had been made to fit the marble archway it stood it – and, upon further reflection, she decided it probably had been. The wood was a light brown with a hint of red to it, more charming than majestic in appearance. As for the carvings, she doubted that in all of England there was any orchard half so ripe and lovely. Well – at least not in September.

            The door served to pacify her bad temper somewhat, and it was with a smile that she lifted a hand to open the door. Oddly, it swung open of its own accord. But Hermione pushed this to the back of her mind when she saw the room that lay behind it.

            The draperies and the curtains on her bed were of a heavy gold silk, tied to the sides of the window and the posts of the bed respectively. The walls put on their own show of opulence with their cover of red velvet; the trim was painted gold as well. Otherwise, the furnishings were all of elegantly but sturdily carved ebony. The sole window was a miniature of the doorway's delicate arch. The room was beautiful.

            It was also stuffy and hot in the extreme. She was sure that Ron (who was finishing his seventh year in Egypt with Bill and most of the Weasley family) had it easy in the Sahara. Pausing only to exchange her slightly small wool school robes for a black linen cheongsam she had bought the previous week, Hermione flung open the window. She breathed in the cool, sweet night air and expressed her relief with the sort of sigh Ron might have given upon seeing a fertile, hydrated oasis. Hermione had never been overly fond of small spaces that reeked of mothballs. They made her claustrophobic.

            So she only hesitated a moment before pushing herself out the window, onto the ledge beyond.

            Once she had settled herself on the ledge, she had to admit that it was quite comfy. The cool wind blew past her face gently, loosing a few strands of still-bushy light brown hair from her hastily done chignon. (Amazing that her hair had stayed put the entire feast, really.) She smiled, leaned back against the castle's sturdy wall, and stretched out her legs, the ledge being perhaps three feet wide or so. Entirely comfortable, serene, content, and blessedly cool, Hermione relaxed entirely.

            Too much, perhaps.

            The vision took her by surprise – not they always didn't, but her years of practice had kept their appearance to her times of meditation only, save a scant handful of times when she'd been very young. But she reminded herself that the cool wind always brings with it news – and this might be a convenient new place to meditate. She'd have to see.

            Then the vision took hold of her, and she blanked her mind in submission, prepared for whatever would come.

* * *

            _Stars glitter in the velvet sky –** see the stars? **the mother says to the child. They are high up in what is not so dissimilar to Hogwarts' Astronomy Tower. The girl turns away._

_            **Sybil**, the mother reproaches, **you have always been at my service. At the service of the place-where-light-is-gone-but-darkness-does-not-come. It is strange of you to turn away.**_

_            The child nods solemnly, smoothes her brown hair. **I am sorry, mother. I want always to be ready when you call.**_

**_            That is good of you, my child. But you need to be prepared for the unexpected._**

**_            Yes, mother. Have you something to show me?_**

_            The mother nods, hands the child a hand mirror that had been hidden the folds of her skirt. **What do you see?**_

_            The images are a river, a flood, a stream that inundates her body and soul._

* * *

            _The Boy lights the corridor with a torch. He speaks her name. "I need you. I cannot win without you, Sibyll."_

_            "That is my title; have you forgotten what it means? You will not win without me. I will be with you in ways you cannot even comprehend, for that is the way of a Sibyll."_

_            "He will be with me," says the Boy. She shakes her head._

_            "He has forsaken the vows of the Sibyll. As will I if I should go with you. When he calls upon his powers, they will not return to him; for he has entered the Darkness beyond the place-where-light-is-gone-but-darkness-does-not-come**. **The powers are loyal only to their home, Boy. Lightness and Darkness shatter them." She takes the Boy's hand in hers. "Oh, Boy, I have seen a green light coming out from under those doors of the Great Hall. You must not let honor halt you in your mission."_

_            "You want me to kill him in cold blood? You've changed, Sibyll."_

_            "They say to fight fire with fire."_

_            "Did you ever love me?" His face is harsh in the firelight._

_            "I still love you," she says. "Mother save me from my sins. But never… like you wanted me to."_

_            The Boy nods slowly. "I understand." He turns from her, walks swiftly up the passageway._

* * *

            The vision came to an end slowly, and Hermione leaned back against the wall as the tide ebbed. Quite unconsciously, she'd resumed her meditation position, which she noted with no small amount of amusement. When she felt her strength had been adequately restored, she stretched, rubbed her stiff neck, and yawned loudly. The stars informed her that it was nearly midnight and high time to get to bed.

            Unfortunately, her yawn seemed to have awoken her neighbour – I have a neighbour? she wondered groggily – whose window, about six feet to her left, was suddenly bright with its room's light. A vague muttered curse could be heard from behind the other window.

            That window was abruptly flung open, and the Potions Master stuck his head outside it.

            "Why- on earth-" he sputtered after a few speechless moments. "Never mind, Miss Granger. I'm not sure I want to know. You can tell your story to the Headmaster."

            "What are you talking about?" Hermione asked incredulously. "For that matter, you live in the dungeons. What on earth are _you_ doing in the room next to the Gryffindor Head Girl's?"

            Snape had the decency to look slightly taken aback. "Your room is _next door_?" He shook his head. "I'll talk to Albus in the morning. You'll have to be moved."

            "Why? I've earned this room." Some of the irritation she felt voiced itself in her tone. "And, as I said, why does the Head of Slytherin have business outside his dungeons at this hour, anyway? _Especially_ in Gryffindor Tower." She scowled at him.

            "For your information, Miss Granger, this is _not_ Gryffindor Tower, it's Orion, which is next door and several staircases away. And my room has been here ever since one of Peeves' tricks wreaked havoc in the dungeon plumbing."

            Hermione thought of several responses to this rather astonishing statement, none of them plausible. Finally, she tilted back her head and laughed.

            Snape frowned at her. "Don't think that Dumbledore won't be hearing about this. And get off that ledge." With that parting shot, he slammed his window closed.

            She could do nothing but laugh for several minutes, before she regained enough control of herself to climb back through the window and tumble into her bed.

* * *

**Credit to be given:**

The idea of the mother is slightly pilfered from Jane S. Fancher's **_Dance of the Rings_** series. (Which is quite good – go read it!)

And thanks to all the authors on **WIKTT** (whose works are so inspiring), especially Riley for all the discussion and recommendation of books!

\- Verity


	3. Beggars Can't Be Choosers Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beggars Can't Be Choosers

Beggars Can't Be Choosers

by Verity

Chapter Two September 2, 1997

            It was a nice, brisk night, the sort of night that signals the return of Autumn in all her glory (clad in fall colours, of course, and equipped with a satchel of schoolbooks.)

            Hermione Granger was calmly enjoying her dinner, and talking with Ginny Weasley – the only Weasley who had not retreated to the safety of Egypt that year, mainly because she felt her abilities would be better utilized in the fight against Voldemort that lay ahead than in exile.

            Ginny brushed a strand of vibrant, wavy, and certainly unruly red hair behind one ear as she poured gravy over her turkey. "I miss them already," she said in a solemn tone.

            "No pub crawls, Ginny, you're not legal 'til next November," Hermione replied, patting her friend's arm. "Besides, everyone's agreed to send you loads of letters and goodies in the post. The end of the year will be here before you know it."

            "I've never been away from any of them so long!" Ginny sniffled.

            "Harry's here," Hermione pointed out optimistically, praying that her last resort tactic would cheer up her friend, at least until she herself finished the last chapter of _Theory: An Arithmancic Romance_.

            "Yes!" Ginny brightened, then turned to her boyfriend and began an animated Quidditch discussion with him. Hermione just shook her head. Her friend's attention span was just as short as her heart was brave.

            After a most enjoyable dinner, she headed back to her room and made quick work of her homework, before retreating to the ledge. The heat was not quite so stifling or unbearable as it had been the previous day, but she was still notably refreshed by the cooler temperature of the air outside her room.

            She closed her eyes, assumed her meditation position, and waited.

* * *

            _The mother turns away from the starry vision outside the window, takes a seat on the windowsill. She looks to the child. **Come sit beside me, Sibyll.**_

_            **Yes, mother.** The child sits herself next to the mother, leans her head on the mother's shoulder. The mother smiles._

_            **Oh, you are ready, my little Sibyll. I had my doubts, but**\- she shrugs, **What do they mean in times such as yours? You are as ready as my last two could make you, and that says a great deal for them. Few others have been so prepared. Are you willing?**_

_            **I am**, the child says earnestly._

_            You know what this entails?_

_            **I have been vowed since the day I was born**, says the child, looking remarkably wise for her age. **I know this is my destiny. **_

**_            Destiny is choices_**_, the mother reminds her._

_            **Yes**, says the child. **Yours for me.**_

_            With a laugh, the mother stokes the child's hair. **You are the wisest I have known in many a turn of the sun. The rites are yours, my child. Tell my last, and give him my love.**_

* * *

            "A cup of tea, Severus?" inquired the Headmaster amiably from his seat behind his desk as the man he addressed entered his office. "Do come in."

            "I'm only stopping by for a moment, I just have a question-" Severus Snape said. "_Why_ did you put Miss Granger in the room next to mine?"

            Albus Dumbledore smiled. It was the sort of pleasant smile that did not, as Severus thought, bode well for any imminent changing of lodgings. "Ah, so she did use the ledge? I had hoped she would enjoy the nice breeze that comes across there. I did, when I was Head Boy."

            Severus did a double take. "That's – the Head _Boy_'s room? But…" he trailed off. "Didn't they redesign the castle fifty years ago so all the rooms were within their own houses' areas?"

            Albus gave him another charming smile, which had the effect of making him feel like a not-particularly-bright first year that has just been patted on the head. It was most disconcerting. "Yes, Professor Dippet did, oh – fifty-five years ago, I believe. Just after the Chamber of Secrets fuss. But I felt it important Miss Granger have that room this year. It promises to be an eventful one, you know."

            Both were silent, and Severus remembered a night two years before, a summer night thick with heat and fire.

            _Wait_, the Dark Lord had said. _They will wait, even the most vigilant among them will believe they are safe from harm, and then we will strike. We will lie, supposedly dormant, but we will cull our newest recruits from the crowd that will still dwell in Hogwarts' hallowed halls two years from now. Then we will rise up from the Darkness – and we will be the victors!_

            So caught up in the frantic cheering and rejoicing that followed this statement, none of the true Death Eaters had heard Voldemort's final statement – almost a whisper, merely a few words muttered to himself.

            _Yes… **I** will be victor._

            The Potions master was abruptly roused from his reverie by the sound of a silver spoon clinking against delicate porcelain. Apparently the Headmaster had decided not to forgo his tea. "Severus, could you pass the sugar? It's right at the edge of the table… Thank you. Winky was most distressed to find you so inattentive," the Headmaster alternately queried, thanked, and informed him.

            "Sometimes," said Severus wearily, "I rather wish I were a Muggle." Never mind that they were lower-class beggars…

            Albus's blue eyes twinkled. "No, you don't. You think they're rather plebeian, which is really most uncharitable of you."

            "Sometimes," said Severus fervently, "I rather wish you would quit repeating my thoughts aloud."

            "But, more to the point, you wish that I would move Miss Granger, which I absolutely cannot do. She needs to be isolated, and I am in the rather difficult position of making sure that someone also watches over her. If she ever comes to you, Severus, and tells you something, you _must_ listen to what she says, and take her seriously."

            Severus sighed. "Very well, Albus. Just… why?"

            "I'm afraid that is something only Miss Granger can choose to tell you," said Albus Dumbledore, his expression growing serious. "Be assured that I would not entrust this task to you were it not a matter of life – or death."

            Just then, a creak came from the door, and both Severus and the Headmaster turned toward the area of its origin. Miss Granger stood in the doorway.

            "Headmaster," she said, "I need to speak with you."

* * *

Thanks to all who've reviewed, and also to my trusty beta, Liss!

– Verity.


	4. Beggars Can't Be Choosers Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beggars Can't Be Choosers

Beggars Can't Be Choosers

by Verity

Chapter Three

            Albus Dumbledore lifted his eyes from Severus to the girl that stood behind the younger man. Oddly, Miss Granger seemed rather more composed and resolute than most who had occasion to visit the Headmaster's office did – at least, upon arrival. She pressed her right hand to her chest, just beneath her throat, a gesture that seemed an involuntary one of reassurance – and that was even stranger, for it belied her calm demeanor. However, the Headmaster nodded slightly, Miss Granger relaxed, and Severus wondered if he were going batty.

            "Severus, I'm afraid you'll have to excuse us," Albus said with another sweeping, kind smile.

            "I understand," he said, rising from the chair in a manner that set the skirts of his robes swishing.

            "Sirius once said that you have a flair for the vaudeville equal only to your distaste for it," Miss Granger commented from the doorway, apparently unable to contain herself any longer.

            Albus' eyes danced. Severus Snape glowered. He made sure that his robes were utterly still as he exited the room.

            And as he descended the stairway outside, he heard Miss Granger giggle, and gritted his teeth, thanking any higher powers who might be listening that he had not been cursed by being sorted into Gryffindor.

            Then again, he reflected, where _could_ the Sorting Hat have put me, save Slytherin?

            Once back in his laboratories, Severus fussed over some Healing Draughts – Madam Pomfrey had insisted that she would need them in bulk, seeing that the Quidditch season was starting up again, and five of Hufflepuff's team members had just left – and found a few minutes to read the latest about Peaseblossom's research on a potion to combat the aftereffects of the Cruciatus Curse.

             However, his mind kept wandering back to Miss Granger, and Albus' insistence that he keep an eye on her. What was there that could make Miss Granger an object of such concern? Even Harry Potter (Gryffindor Head Boy – had anyone expected anything less?) didn't merit a private room as well as a guardian.

            Severus Snape wondered, and as he wondered, stirring the Healing Draughts at various intervals, an image firmly placed itself in his mind – Miss Granger, determined and serene in the doorway, clasping a hand to her breast. Was it a signal of some kind?

            And then his Dark Mark burned. He cursed the Dark Lord to high Heaven, Hell, and everything in between, and he promptly forgot all about Miss Granger. He quickly bottled the Healing Drafts, set them in the chillier corner of the office, and Summoned his mask and cloak from his quarters.

            There was nothing except him and the terrible, searing fire in his arm on his mind as he Apparated, which was perhaps for the best…

* * *

            "When can you perform them?" Hermione Granger asked as she sat back in the armchair before Professor Dumbledore.

            The Professor in question inclined his head to the left and was lost in thought for a moment. "October," he said finally, decided at last. "October 31st. The vernal equinox. You will, of course, need a non-Sibyll mentor."

            "Who was yours?" Hermione asked, more out of curiosity than anything else.

            "My wife," he said fondly. "Opal would have liked you very much, Miss Granger, and I know she'd have been happy to mentor you, as she would have Margaret. But she's been dead… oh, forty years now. And Margaret is a born-Sibyll, not suitable at all. Do you have anyone in mind?"

            "Not Margaret Trelawney." She was not going to cave in on _that_ issue.

            "No, no." Dumbledore's eyes sparkled, as if in silent laughter. "I know your feelings, on that at least. Are you sure, though, that you're ready?"

            "Mother asked that."

            "She would." More amused twinkling of the eyes. "Good of you, then. Miss Granger-" he was earnest now- "I would not have slept easily knowing I was the only vowed Sibyll left. Katherina was murdered last week."

            "_Murdered_?" Hermione gasped, horrified. "But Madam Dowling-  she was in hiding- the Fidelius charm-"

            The Headmaster shook his head sadly. "Tom Riddle was a born-Sibyll," he reminded her gently. "Even they can track down another, given time, if it is mother's will. But you- mother has said enough to me, that I know he does not know of your existence…"

            "But he will, if I choose Harry for my mentor, won't he?" she asked, feeling the beginnings of dread wind their tentacles about her. "Because of the scar – Harry can't know… nor Ginny…"

            "I think Minerva would do so, though, if you are willing."

            "I'll have to think about it, Professor." She rose from her chair, then turned to face him again, clasping her hands in front of her.

            "I understand," Dumbledore said kindly. "And it has been a busy day for you. Think it over."

            She nodded, reached her hand to the little lump that hung over her breastbone.

            The Headmaster laughed. "Swearing so small a promise on that, are you?"

            But Hermione was serious. "It could be a matter of life or death, couldn't it? I don't know about Minerva, Professor… I might ask…" But there was no one she could think of, save Harry, Ginny, and the rest of the Weasleys so far away in Egypt.

            "Mother bless you," Dumbledore said after an agonizingly long moment of silence.

            "You as well," she said, and then she was gone, wondering why mother had chosen her, of all people, for such a task…

            She went out on her ledge to meditate again before bed, and this time mother did not speak to her, only threw the hand mirror at her and threw up her hands in dismay. Hermione knew that this would be no future sending, only a glimpse of here-and-now…

* * *

            _A moor. A high, windy place, the chill of death a breeze across the Man-Who-Stoppers-Death's face. A circle of nineteen men and women and one more in the middle with the Man. The Dark One._

_            The Dark One does not need a wand to inflict his torments. One of the benefits of being a born-Sibyll, really. He reaches out a skeletal white hand over the head of the Man. "_Crucio_."_

_            The Man writhes and moans; she sees the cold sweat beading on his forehead and the back of his neck. She leans forward to help, but the mother slaps her hand. **Bad Girl.** She knows she will have a welt there later on, but it will be a well-deserved one. Sibyll do not interfere._

            Finally the Men and Women of Death and the Dark One leave the Man alone, lying in the dirt, his robes sodden with sweat.

_            "Someone has leaked word about our plans," the Dark One says. "Let the Man-Who-Stoppers-Death serve as an example to you all. And should he be innocent – when I discover who has spoken, they will be given a much more thorough flogging. That I can assure you."_

_            The Men and Women of Death depart, and the Man cries in his grave of dust. Finally, he musters the strength to Apparate._

_            **Now**, the mother says, **you may act.**_


	5. Beggars Can't Be Choosers Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beggars Can't Be Choosers

Beggars Can't Be Choosers

by Verity

Chapter Four

            Hermione almost lost her balance, getting up from her seat on the ledge – Madam Dowling's words of fourteen years before echoed in her ears, _Don't get up too fast, dear, wouldn't want you to have a dizzy spell_ – but haste was needed, she feared.

            The wind blew around her, pushing her forward, and she clung to the ancient stone of the ledge beneath her as she crawled the six feet or so to the next window. The world spun shakily around her as she lifted her hand to knock on the window.

            "Professor Snape! Professor Snape!" she cried, but the wind rose up around her, roaring and hostile – a storm was coming on, the clouds a steel-grey against the black night sky – and her voice was drowned out by the din. Hermione pounded her fist against the window. No answer. She winced, envisioned mother's response if she failed, and decided potential expulsion was certainly the better alternative. "_Alohomora_," she whispered, holding her fingers over the window's catch. So small a magic was within her reach, though she knew she would tax herself if she tried anything greater wandless.

            The window swung open, admitting her to the Potions master's lair. She hesitated briefly – only the once, with her feet poised on the threshold – then she lowered her body in through the window, slowly, silently.

            Snape lay sprawled on the carpet, breathing heavily, eyes closed. Were it not for the painful, hoarse gasps she might have thought him dead, she might have believed he had given in to the pain that was consuming his body.

            She wracked her brains for any ideas of what she might do – Cruciatus, she knew, was the most horrible of the curses – Imperius stole your mind, Avada Kedavra your life, but at least they were quick and clean about it. Cruciatus extracted your soul from your body, left you a shattered ruin, keening and moaning if you were lucky, perhaps dead painfully if you weren't. Ah – the memory came to her now… Moody, in her fourth year, had said a Nerve-Numbing potion would do the trick; it would dull the pain to a bearable state, if not taking it away entirely.

            Hermione bent over Snape's crooked, still body, put her hand on his shoulder.  It was cold- so cold, even with his robe between her hand and his shoulder, even on a warm September night. "Professor?" she whispered urgently. "Professor, can you hear me?"

            He stirred, opened his eyes, and then opened his mouth as if he had something to say – but he abruptly shut both it and his eyes and slid away from lucidity. She sighed, stood up again.

            First to the fire, she decided. It was warm in the room but not warm enough to save him- if she could. No time to run to Madam Pomfrey – but she reached a hand to her necklace, that ever-present lump on her breastbone, and thought of Dumbledore, thought of a phoenix with a broken wing. She knew he'd come, do what he could.

            So preoccupied was she with first lighting a fire in the fireplace and then searching through Snape's copy of _Most_ _Potente Potions,_ Hermione did not notice that the necklace had slipped out from the low neckline of her nightclothes and hung uncovered on her breast. Its fire opals glittered and shone in the firelight.

            After what seemed an eternity, she found the recipe and set about making the Nerve-Numbing potion, her hands steady and calm despite her quaking inner self. A vowed Sibyll had to be strong, brave, free from earthly concerns, and above all, devoted to suiting mother's whims. For without those qualities, their place in the world could not exist.

* * *

            Severus' first memory after Apparating from the dusty ground where Voldemort and his fellow (Merlin, how he loathed the word) Death Eaters was of an angel.

            He saw: her silky hand on his shoulder, gazing worriedly into his face; her long, waist length, pale brown hair hanging in a halo around her face; her loving concern. Her slender body, encased only in shorts and a light yellow sleeveless shirt that was cut low enough to show a river of slightly tan skin, tight enough to hint at the curves that lay beneath. And a necklace. She wore a necklace that would have paid the ransom of kings. Fire opals, diamond eyes, gold all around – it was a phoenix, a faintly familiar phoenix at that. He swore he'd seen it somewhere. Then darkness swallowed them up…

            When the darkness receded, he could barely see her in the twilight, just the faint lightness of her in the shadows. He was warm… at last. But Severus could sense something dark and cold that hung in the air. He sensed fear, fear in the angel's controlled motions, mixing some potion in the shadows.

            But suddenly the shakes took him, and he writhed on the carpet, the kind warmth burned away by the wracking pain that was always the aftermath of the Cruciatus curse. It was likely he'd have attacks for months… and the pain wound its lovely tendrils of molten fire around him, silencing his thoughts, silencing even his screams…

            The angel cried out, turned away from whatever she was brewing; clutched the necklace in her hands. He remembered now where he'd seen it… then there was a flash of icy white light, and the angel was gone.

            When next he woke, he found the owner of the necklace's twin standing over him. Dumbledore. He tried to speak, with difficulty, but the Headmaster silenced him with a hand raised in protest.

            "You have Miss Granger to thank for your life, Severus," Albus said soberly.

            "What?" he said, or tried to, for it came out more like "Oahh?"

            "Yes," Albus' eyes bored into his, "She saved you. Almost at the cost of her own life. She is in stable condition," the Headmaster added. Oddly, it felt to Severus as though a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. Funny.

            "_How?_" he asked, finally.

            But Albus only shook his head, firmly. "That is for Miss Granger to tell you, in her own time, if she should wish it."

            "The pendant." At least that question would be answered.

            "In her own time, Severus."

            As he closed his eyes, he realized something – that the angel who had saved him and Miss Granger must have been one and the same…

* * *

            Stripped, for the moment, of the energy and vitality that had always fueled her, Hermione Granger was pale and unlovely. Her head was thrown back against the pillow, her blue veins visible through the translucent skin of her throat. She lay in her four-poster bed in a stream of sunlight that brought out highlights in her light honey hair, still and sleeping.

            Albus Dumbledore gazed down at her; it was a Wednesday, and it occurred to him that perhaps never in her school career (save her time in the hospital wing her second year) had Hermione slept so late on a school day. Absently he reminded himself to ask Poppy or Severus if they knew of any good strength-replenishing potions. Not that there were likely to be any Sibyll-strength potions around.

            Hermione's lashes were honey-gold against her white-as-marble skin.

            Had anyone seen him, standing there in a room that had been his own nearly a hundred and forty years before, they would have been surprised to see the look in his old, wise blue eyes – which were a little teary, truth to be told. Albus thought of Opal, dead and lovely, forty years now… so very much like Hermione, when it came down to it, though Opal had been a dark and exotic beauty, and more interested in Charms than Transfiguration.

            Albus Dumbledore reached a hand to his own necklace, thought of his wife. "Miss Granger," he said to the slumbering student on the bed, "You make me proud."

            Hermione smiled in her sleep.


	6. Beggars Can't Be Choosers Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beggars Can't Be Choosers

Beggars Can't Be Choosers

by Verity

Chapter Five

_September 6, 1997_

            _Eyes like ice._

_            They are a soft grey; their owner's hair is sparkling silver gilt. She leans against the wall of a dark, dank cell that contrasts oddly with her colouring. Her skin is deathly pale, her eyes huge in her thin, worn face; it is hard to tell where her gown begins or ends, flowing in smooth folds across her skin. The dress itself is the colour of a winter afternoon's sky – blue so pale it is white._

_            The Lamp-Bearer can't be more than twenty._

_            Her face is blank and unfeeling as she looks upon the Man-Who-Stoppers-Death. "What do you want of me?" she asks in a voice hoarse with disuse._

_            The Man slides further into the cell, shuts the door behind him. "I've come to get you out. I couldn't leave you."_

_            "You couldn't, could you?" She nods her head, fixes those huge, empty eyes on him. "I won't go with you."_

_            "No! Lamp-Bearer, I knew you would say this. You can't die because of some misguided notion of chivalry!" the Man says, sounding desperate. As if he knows the futility of his words._

_            The Lamp-Bearer laughs. Laughter leads to a few moments of coughing that wrack her emaciated body. When she recovers, she closes her eyes. "I've kept my secrets well. My silence means your freedom, love. Don't begrudge it."_

_            "I can't leave you," Less conviction in the Man's voice this time._

_            "Go. They'll be changing guard in a few minutes. What are you standing there for?"_

_            "I love you, Lamp-Bearer." The Man goes to the door._

_            After he is gone, she slides to the floor, places her cheek along the cool. "What I've lost," she whispers. "What I've lost, for the sake of her…"_

* * *

            Hermione opened her eyes to find Harry sitting beside her, broom in hand. She laughed. "Hey, what are you doing up here at this hour?" she inquired laughingly, her eyes on his hair, alight with the purples and oranges of the sunrise's radiant glow.

            "Quidditch practice in half an hour," her friend moaned. "Oh - did I interrupt your meditation?"

            She shook her head, looked up at him. "No. I was almost done anyway."

            There were shadows beneath his eyes. Harry noticed her looking. "Another nightmare," he explained. "They keep coming. I wanted to talk to you about them."

            "Harry!" His brilliant emerald eyes were as worried as she knew hers must be. "How long have you held off telling me?"

            Her friend lowered his head. "Since Wednesday. You were sick, after all. But," he held up a hand to ward off her reproaches, "I tried telling Ginny. Bad idea."

            Hermione sighed. "Didn't you know?" At the look of confusion he gave her, she elaborated, leaning against the stone wall. "She still has nightmares. About Riddle."

            "Oh."

            "'Oh' might be a bit light for waking up screaming every night for a year, but it'll suffice."

            Harry, clutching his Firebolt forlornly, looked as if he might cry. "Why is it that I can't even confide in my girlfriend without bollixing everything up? _Why_?"

            She patted him awkwardly on the back; warily, for she was familiar with the dangerous ground they were treading on. "Harry, it's not your fault – no one could blame your for not knowing-"

            "_You_ wouldn't." His voice managed to convey both animosity and abject misery.

            Hermione withdrew, pushed open her window. "If you're going to be like that, I'll just go in."

            "Hermione…" Harry sighed, running his hands through his messy black hair. "I'm sorry. Ginny's never understood me like you do."

            "Then why are you dating her?"

            "Because you told me we could never be more than friends. Because she _is_ my friend, and I wanted her to be happy."

            It wasn't her fault if her laughter was rather bitter. "Is that a reason to date anyone? She _loves_ you, Harry. Don't you understand that? You haven't even given her a chance to know you, not really. I don't want to talk about this. Tell me about the dream and go to practice."

            "All right!" he exclaimed. "I'm walking down a hallway and Malfoy grabs me, pulls me down another hallway that didn't exist before. I try to squirm out of his grip, but I can't. He isn't looking at me. He's just staring straight ahead, muttering under his breath, 'Luck. Luck.'"

            "I'll tell Dumbledore," she said, sliding over the windowsill. "Have a nice practice."

            Once she had heard him take off on his broom, Hermione waved her hand absently at the window. It shut and locked on its own.

            Oh, I'll tell Dumbledore, Hermione thought to herself, as she sat down before her vanity, undid the ribbon she had tied her braid with, and began to brush her hair. I've been meaning to thank him for keying the locking charms to me anyway…

* * *

            "Mother," the Headmaster said to her from behind his desk. "It must have been her. He didn't mention his scar hurting?"

            "No," Hermione said, shaking her head. She was seated in the chair across from him. "But- mother sent me a past-vision- of a Malfoy, I think. I've seen her before in visions. Mother called her Lamp-Bearer."

            "Lamp-Bearer…" Dumbledore seemed lost in thought as he absently stroked his white beard, his glasses sliding down his nose just a bit. "The name sounds familiar. Katherina led the Sibyll before you in her vows, you know, and I seem to recall her Name being something to do with a lamp…"

            "You didn't know her?" she asked curiously. "I thought- we all knew each other-"

            "No – or Voldemort would have known you. Katherina had her apprentices, and I mine- you, dear," he clarified. Her puzzlement must have shown on her face. "No, never Riddle, nor Margaret Trelawney – a fool is she to claim the title. But Voldemort knows she is useless; she started teaching here in his third year. He won't harm her. Mother's only spoken through her twice."

            "Never to her. I know." Hermione looked out the window, at the sunset of Saturday eve. "There was something about Lamp-Bearer, though… she was talking with Snape."

            "How did you know she was a Malfoy?" Dumbledore inquired, leaning forward, his elbows on his desk and his fingers steepled.

            "Her eyes- they were grey- like ice." She shivered. "So lonely."

            "Hmm." The Headmaster bowed his head over his hands. "Curious indeed."

* * *

Thanks to everyone for your reviews!

Verity


	7. Beggars Can't Be Choosers Chapter Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beggars Can't Be Choosers

Beggars Can't Be Choosers

by Verity

Chapter Six

_September 8, 1997_

            Potions with the Gryffindor and Slytherin seventh-years was unusually unpleasant, Severus thought. Draco Malfoy had upgraded his insults from juvenile epithets to cutting sarcasm over the summer; Neville Longbottom still quivered every time he approached the boy's table; and Pansy Parkinson had developed a fondness for a perfume that filled the classroom and made him rather nauseous. He would have to owl her mother.

            He finished the stack of papers he was grading (socializing during lunch was rather overrated, in his opinion) and became aware of the shadow that was being cast on his desk. Severus looked up, a reprimand on the tip of his tongue – and at the last moment, silenced himself.

            It was only when Severus saw her that he knew, without a doubt, that his angel was more than a figment of his imagination.

            "Professor Snape," said the angel, "Could you spare a moment of your time?"

            Wordlessly, he gestured to the chair in front his desk. But when the angel sat down, she was merely Hermione Granger – who yawned.

            "That's really rather tiring," she remarked through the yawn. "But I had to get in here and mother knows it was the easiest way. Do you want me to tell you how I saved your life or Obliviate you now?"

            "An explanation would be preferred," he replied dryly. "Starting off with who taught you Glamourie. It's outlawed by the Ministry, and I haven't heard of anyone practicing it since 1615."

            She laughed at him. "Hold still."

            The room was suddenly very cold, and Severus found himself utterly unable to concentrate on anything except her eyes, cinnamon-colored, intense, riveting… and then the spell was broken, and she sat back, satisfied.

            "There," Hermione – he couldn't think of her as Miss Granger any longer, he found. "You won't be able to repeat anything I tell you, except to Dumbledore. It's keyed to the vowed Sibyll."

            "Sibyll?" he asked.

            She sighed. "You don't know anything, do you? I am one of the born-Sibyll – there's roughly three or four of us in every century. Out of those three or four, only half ever take the vows, and only a handful every millennium takes the title. Pretentious idiots, the lot of them – the title-wearers," Hermione added hastily. "Professor Trelawney is born-Sibyll, which is enough to grant her the title. Her real first name is Margaret."

            "Ah." _That_ explained a lot. "What, er, does a Sibyll do?" He was curious in spite of himself. Or perhaps it was the fact that his angel – no, no, _Hermione_ – was sitting in front of him that lowered his guard.

            "Sibyll… we're gifted when we're born with the ability to have mother talk through us. Mother knows the past, the present, and the future. As we take our vows, mother talks to us… and any other talents we have as the result of being born-Sibyll increase. Mother ultimately decides who gets to take vows, and who doesn't… Tom Riddle was a born-Sibyll who took up to the second level of vows… but when he began using his powers to serve the Darkness, mother turned against him."

            "Is she a goddess?"

            Hermione laughed again, but this time, kindly. "That's kind of a limiting term, don't you think? Mother… well, she's herself. She's perhaps a ghost of a goddess, except no one would ever call mother a ghost. Any of the born-Sibyll who chooses to be vowed to her is hers- we carry out her bidding, the bidding of the place-where-light-is-gone-but-darkness-does-not-come. We have no allegiance to the Dark or to the Light. That would be too dangerous." Answering his unasked question, "Because of our powers. We see the past, the present, the future; so we have to be responsible. Also, I… can do some wandless magic, not very much yet, but a little; the Glamourie, of course; and I've a very good memory."

            "I see." He pondered this for a moment. "Why are you telling this to me?"

            "Because I need a favor."

* * *

            Snape looked rather more surprised than she had thought he would, Hermione decided. Was it so unbelievable she would ask something of him?

            Mother believed in educating her Sibyll in fair trade, anyway. He already owed her.

            "What sort of favor?" he asked finally.

            She looked at the ceiling. "I… er… need someone to watch over me in my vows. Dumbledore can't – he's already vowed and… telling Harry is the same as telling Voldemort. Because of his scar, you know. Telling Ginny would be telling Harry."

            "Why not Professor McGonagall?"

            Idiot, she inwardly muttered. "Professor, I saved your life. It's a debt that needs repaying. Would you rather take care of it now or still owe me twenty years in the future?"

            He scowled at her. "Very well."

            "The Headmaster will talk to you," Hermione said, rather relieved that _that_ was over. She touched a fingertip to her necklace, hidden beneath her robes, and thought _yes_.

            "Can I see that?" Snape asked suddenly, looking intently at her.

            She nodded and lifted it over her head. "Be careful. It can't be replaced."

            He took it from her and examined it.  "What is it?"

            "Mother's gift to her chosen ones."

            "You may go now," the Potions master said, his voice a command rather than a suggestion. He thrust the necklace towards her and turned back to the pile of papers awaiting a red-inked quill.

            Hermione wrinkled her nose at him, and pulled on just enough Glamourie to make him aware of how mother's ambassadors were supposed to be treated as she left the room.

            Odd, how mother was convinced that Snape was the right person to mentor her. Then again, he was rather tied up into the things that were going to be happening…

            She ate a croissant and an apple that she'd saved from breakfast as she walked up the stairs to the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom; the real Mad-Eye Moody was teaching this year, as he had for the last two. It was certainly an eye-opening class.

            Professor Moody didn't seem surprised to see her in early from lunch, and Hermione had time to finish her snack and her Arithmancy homework before class started. All in all, it had went quite well…

            After her last class of the day, and after she'd finished her homework, she went out on her ledge in search of mother's opinion...

* * *

            **_So_**_, the mother says to the child, **you have done as I bid you. Quite well.**_

_            **Are you so sure he should be the one to mentor me?** the child asks, looking up at the mother, her hands clasped behind her back._

_            **Oh, I am.** The mother smiles fondly. **You will learn in time, little Sibyll. Yes, you will learn…**_

* * *

            Apologies for the long wait! My novel suddenly decided that it **needed** to be written, which is where I've been for the past week-or-so. *hugs* to everyone who's reviewed so far, all 49 of you!

Verity


	8. Beggars Can't Be Choosers Chapter Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Note to the reader__: I've decided to give an _R_ rating to this story – things get squicky from here on in, so if that's not your thing… you'd best steer clear._

_Note to the reader__: I've decided to give an _R_ rating to this story – things get squicky from here on in, so if that's not your thing… you'd best steer clear._

__

* * *

Beggars Can't Be Choosers

by Verity

Chapter Seven

            It was, all in all, quite an eventful day, Hermione thought, recalling the vision, munching introspectively on a dinner roll, as she explained to Neville Longbottom the properties of the Aedificius charm –

            "So it isn't much useful unless you're house-building and even then only if you've a team?" her classmate asked, leaning across the table to look hopefully into her eyes.

            "Right!" she exclaimed, swallowing part of the roll whole in her surprise. After all, she'd only spent the last ten minutes explaining it to him, and usually Neville tended to take a little longer with Charms.

            However, all thoughts of Charms flew straight out of her head when Ginny walked into the Great Hall. She was like fire – if fire could seethe.

            "That's _it_!" Ginny hissed, slamming her books down on the table as she threw herself into the place Hermione had saved for her. "I'll _kill_ him."

            "Harry?" Hermione asked, feeling a pall of dread sweep over her.

            Ginny narrowed her eyes. "Did you know?"

            "I've no idea what you're talking about, Gin."

            "All right, then. It was our anniversary. We've been dating two months. Do you know what he _did_?" This was plainly a rhetorical question. "We were supposed to meet during lunch. He stood me up for one-on-one 'Quidditch practice' with that Hufflepuff seeker."

            Hermione reflected that this was an unusual display of tactlessness, even for Harry. "But they weren't- you know he'd never-" Well, she corrected herself, remembering Saturday morning, if not never, at least not- "_Not_ with Diana Featherstonehaugh! She's barely fifteen!"

            "It's not _that_-" Ginny explained. "It's the _principle_ of the thing! Mum always said never to date a man who couldn't keep a commitment."

            "Your mother-" Hermione began, but got no farther, because, by that point, Harry had appeared at Ginny's side. This will be painful, she thought, surreptitiously placing a Parvaudio hex on herself. It was a testament to the Weasley vocal cords that she still heard everything quite clearly, and even more so when the Parvaudio hex collapsed entirely under the noise of Ginny's condemnations the next moment.

            Harry never had a chance.

            "_You!_" Ginny cried out, loud enough for the entire hall (and perhaps even Crookshanks, up in Orion Tower) to hear. "You! I can't _believe_ you have the nerve to show your face here after what you did this afternoon!"

            "What?" Harry asked nervously.

            "You bloody _didn't show up_ is what you did! We had a date! A long-standing commitment for the eighth of every month, and all you can say is 'What?' I expected better of you, Harry Potter! I hope your Hufflepuff girlfriend is satisfactory, because I never want to see your face again! Do you _understand_?"

            "Are you breaking up with me?"

            Ginny's frustrated scream was the last thing Hermione heard before she felt a vision's imminent approach. She sedately walked out of the Great Hall under the cover of Glamourie before bolting, desperate to reach Orion Tower…

            Unfortunately, she didn't make it quite that far.

****

* * *

            A room in a manor house – it's finely furnished in porcelain-blue-and-white, which echoes the willowware pattern of the wallpaper. Central in the room is a large, white-metal-framed bed with a blue canopy and curtains, and it is on this bed that the Lamp Bearer sits. So obvious is it that the room is a little girl's room that the Lamp Bearer herself appears a little girl playing dress-up – her face is freshly washed, free of makeup; her hair hangs in a long silver-gilt braid down her back; but she is clad in lingerie made for a more sophisticated and larger-bosomed woman.

_            The Hand Of Power steps into the room, dressed in black linen beneath his silver-embroidered black silk robes. His own silver-gilt hair is tied back from his face. The Lamp Bearer must be about sixteen, but the Hand Of Power is at least fifteen years her senior, if not more._

_            The Hand Of Power moves with a polished grace that he has honed over the years – clearly, he is man experienced in the social circles, a man above the sordid deeds that it is whispered he performs. He crosses to the bed, letting his experienced fingers loosen the clasps on the Lamp-Bearer's ill-chosen garments, and soon she is laid out on the bed, naked, her eyes staring at the ceiling. She moves only to drink the contents of a goblet that appears mysteriously by the bed, and then resumes her blank, motionless state. Meanwhile, the Hand Of Power sheds his own clothes, neatly folding them into piles so as not to wrinkle the expensive materials._

_            The Lamp-Bearer maintains her unresponsive state as the Hand Of Power copulates with her, her body limp and her head thrown back so she cannot see him. When he is done, she closes her eyes._

_            Gradually, sleep overtakes her, and the Hand Of Power leaves._

****

* * *

            Albus Dumbledore had not been at dinner, of course, as he'd been in London, procuring some lovely sherbet lemons (and quite lovely ones, in his opinion.) So he was somewhat surprised when he received a knock on the door about thirty minutes after the dinner hour began – usually Hogwarts denizens were tucking into their second helpings by then.

            "Oh, dear," he said at the sight of Hermione Granger in Severus's arms. Poor man. He'd been expecting something of the sort when she started her Ordeal…

            "I found her in the hallway that leads to Orion Tower," Severus said grimly, gently sitting the girl on the couch. "She refuses to wake, but doesn't appear to be unconscious. Just… sleeping."

            "Trance," he reassured the younger man. "Katherina Dowling – she was Headmistress at Beauxbatons, before Maxime – used to do the same thing all the time. She never had the patience to channel." However, this worried him. Hermione had never had a problem with channeling… no one had, except for… "Hmm."

            Hermione twitched a little in her sleep. Severus looked concerned – a rare thing, for him. "Is she supposed to do that?"

            "She's not really supposed to _do_ anything, Severus. Just watch, and listen. And wait." The mother-within-Albus bickered with his other half, the latter finally winning. "This shouldn't be happening. I'm going to pull her out of her Ordeal."

            "Her Ordeal?"

            He sighed. Mother, didn't the girl tell Severus _anything_? "Mother… tries out her potential candidates before she allows them to take their vows, you know, to see if they'll be amenable to her advances. She controls all Sibyll to some degree, physically as well as mentally. Has Miss Granger been acting… oddly?"

            Severus nodded. "Does she usually use so much Glamourie?"

            This was worse than Albus had feared. "Miss Granger has _never_ been able to use Glamourie, Severus. When did she do so?"

            "Wednesday night, when I came back…and this afternoon. She came to see me in my office."

            "I'll have to pull her out of the Ordeal, then. There's nothing else to do."

            Hogwarts' Headmaster wondered vaguely if mother would ever forgive him for this…

****

* * *

Thanks to McAmy for her splendidly large con.-crit-ful review!

Verity


	9. Beggars Can't Be Choosers Chapter Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Beggars Can´t Be Choosers**

**Beggars Can´t Be Choosers**

by Verity

**Chapter Eight**

__

She is not in mother´s tower.

That is her first thought. Her second: that where she is looks very, very familiar. It is Dumbledore´s office.

To her surprise, she´s lying on a couch, which she has not previously noticed as being in the circular room. To her even greater surprise, Professor Snape is hanging over her, looking concerned, while Dumbledore rummages in a large, lacquered cabinet. Dumbledore seems to be saying something, but try as she might, she cannot make out the words.

It´s almost another world. She looks to her right, at the large armchair that sits before Dumbledore´s desk perhaps five feet away; there is the Lamp Bearer. She thinks that she has never really seen the Lamp-Bearer before, in spite of the visions – there is a dark quality to the other woman that she couldn´t perceive, earlier. The Lamp-Bearer still wears the dress of the first vision – the winter-sky blue shift, loose against her thinness – and her face is still long and oval, but her eyes are unguarded. Unconsciously, she thinks – Malfoy´s eyes.

**Shh**, the Lamp-Bearer says, placing a finger over her lips, and she understands – anything she says here will have to be said in dreamspeak.

**Why are you here?** she asks.

**Mother has no power over the dream world – save that she can open the door for you when she wishes. You saw the visions she sent you. Do you know what they were, Walker of Two Worlds?**/P&gt;

It comes to her suddenly. **Mother_ would ask that of you?_**

**Mother**, replies the Lamp-Bearer drily, **would not hesitate to ask that of any Sibyll. She means to take you, you know, as she would have taken me if the situation had allowed. She has already infiltrated your body.**

**I know, **she sighs.** It´s the Ordeal.**

** I know what mother plans for you. And I know what the dream world holds. These two things can be balanced, if you are willing to play the game.**

**I want a fair trade**, she says smoothly. **I want your name, that will call you from Heaven, Hell, the dream world and beyond; and your promise to help me when you can; and I want you to swear those things to be true.**

**You trust too easily, Walker of Two Worlds.** But the Lamp-Bearer seems a little amused.

**Why shouldn´t I trust you?** she asks, reasonably.

** True. Dream wraiths have always held to the truth. Let me tell you what I ask, first, before you agree.**

Very well.

** I ask that you betray mother. I ask that you kill, not in self-defense, but strike out to slay those who commit injustice against you by their very being. I ask that you save a man whom you have never liked, who has been cruel to you in the fast and does not easily change his ways. But in return – you will deliver the Boy Who Lived from mother´s promised death and you will deliver an innocent boy from Hell. **The Lamp-Bearer slips back into silence. She looks tired; her aura is as black as night, the aura of those who have neither the strength to live as ghosts nor the wish to slip quietly into the night.

**I´ll do it**, she answers at last, after what seems hours of thinking.

**My name was Lux LeMalfois**, says Lamp-Bearer, **and I will do all I can to aid you This I swear**

The next thing she hears is a hazy voice, as if through miles of water, but she recognizes it. Snape. He is calling, Miss Granger, please wake up and so she does, and Hermione is perplexed to find her body on the floor

* * *

Come, come, Severus, we can´t waste time, the Headmaster said, throwing him a piece of chalk. I can´t do this alone, with or without your help. The Star within a square, will you?

Severus watched numbly as Albus made his way over to a black laquered cabinet that contained his Pensieve. What on earth are you doing? he hissed. It´ll kill her!

Nonsense, nonsense, Albus insisted, opening the cabinet´s doors, _Revelo_. Another shelf appeared within the black cabinet, this one holding innumerable candles of every shade of the rainbow. Albus selected five ivory-colored ones and then shut the cabinet. We´re just going to invite mother to have a cup of tea with some of her friends. She won´t take offense. It´s happened before.

Oh?

Albus smiled, a smile that seemed to indulge itself in nostalgia. My Ordeal. A hundred and thirty years ago, almost exactly. Unfortunately, mother wanted me to do some things that would have killed me had Katherina not drawn her out and then given me a crash course in calling spirits. Which is what I´m going to do now. Might I have the chalk, if you´d rather I do it myself?

Severus nodded, silent. Most wizards were quite content with their own powers and the last time he´d heard of anyone calling Guardians

It´s because you´re a Sibyll, isn´t it, he said at last.

Albus nodded, not looking up from the design he was chalking on the wooden floor. Voldemort has stirred Guardians of the Watchtower in his time, Severus. All great wizards have, whether they know it or not. There. He set the five candles out, each on a point of the star, and murmured, _Inflamare_.

With the candles alight, the Headmaster turned to Severus. Could you place Miss Granger within the star?

Yes. Severus was glad of something to do. He realized, oddly, that he was worried about Hermione Granger, but rationalized it: after all, she´d saved his life.

Or this mother creature had. He didn´t really like to think about it.

Gently, he picked up Hermione´s lithe little body – Don´t think about her like that, he reprimanded himself, but it was too late – he was also noticing the lovely silkiness of her hair again, the pretty cinnamon shade of her eyes – they were open now, which he took as a good sign.

All too soon she was out of his arms and on the floor, within the star. Dumbledore spoke some words that he decided, after a few minutes, were Celtic or Gaelic, two languages he had only a passing familiarity with. Winds whistled through the room.

Suddenly, the candles burst into full, all-consuming flame that swallowed up even the wax – and he winced, fearing for the girl within the star. But the flames did not touch her – merely burned brightly until, suddenly, falling into ash.

Miss Granger, please wake up, he found himself pleading, softly.

She blinked. Well, I guess he isn´t so horrible she said, dreamily, and for some odd reason, he seemed to hear a dark chuckle coming from the direction of Albus´s armchair.

Severus wondered – in a foolishly hopeful way he knew could only be self-destructive – whether he could be the _he _she referred to

* * *

The awakening ritual couldn´t have been done without _The Complete Idiot´s Guide to Wicca and Witchcraft_, which has become my handy resource for Sibyll workings.

I know I keep promising more S/H, less mother. Soon. Until then, I´ve just done a wee S/H triad called Silent Prison– snogs! Actual snogs! Hurrah! *wink*

Verity


	10. Beggars Can't Be Choosers Chapter Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beggars Can't Be Choosers

Beggars Can't Be Choosers

by Verity

Chapter Nine

            Hermione struggled up to a sitting position – she noticed that both Snape and Dumbledore seemed reluctant to come near her – and then recognized what she was sitting on. Or rather in.

            "What happened?" she asked, her voice a little harsher than she'd intended. Her feelings were swirling madly within her – rage, thankfulness, terror all warred with each other. She knew already, though – mother was gone, that faint, indefinable presence she'd not quite been able to put a finger on. Her thoughts were her own again.

            "You fainted," Dumbledore said, sounding worried, "In the hallway to Orion Tower. Mother sent you a vision. Why didn't you tell me you'd been having trouble focusing, Miss Granger?"

            She flushed. "It was only – the once," she stammered. "I was already very relaxed – so close to the meditative state – I wasn't too surprised. It was peaceful up there."

            "And the Glamourie?"

            "That wasn't me. It wasn't. Mother came into me – the night I did the healing. I knew I was going to. She had sent me a – she knew I'd do it, draw on my Sibyll power, and she knew I'd _trust_ her…" Hermione trailed off and sighed. "I know what she's trying to do. She wants to use me as a vessel, doesn't she?"

            "Miss Granger-"

            "You _know_ it, Professor," she snapped. She was sick and tired of everyone playing games with her. Harry, mother, Dumbledore – she'd had _enough_. Some part of her mind noted that Snape looked distinctly uncomfortable. Good, she thought, though she felt bad about it – Lux did mean Snape, didn't she? "I can feel it," she continued. "She tried with Lamp-Bearer, you know, or would have, if Lamp-Bearer hadn't been important to her. You don't have to… do anything. I know she'd kill you."

            "_Kill_ you?" Snape suddenly exclaimed, looking to Dumbledore. "But – this thing can't-"

            "Yes, she can." The Headmaster's voice was grim. "That's what the vows are about, Severus. It's a hard thing to be a vowed Sibyll. One has to… make choices. What would have happened if Harry Potter hadn't defeated Voldemort? What of that? What of-"

            "Professor Dumbledore," Hermione interrupted, knowing where he was going, "It's no one's fault. Mother's not human. She doesn't see lives. She only sees paths, and forks in the road. _You couldn't have saved them_." Snape appeared somewhat confused. To him she said, "Sibyll are shown things, sometimes, and they cannot act on them, because that would be to tip the scale to Lightness or Darkness, and anger mother. Sometimes two deaths are better than a reign of terror. In the scheme of things."

            "How can you speak _lightly_ of this?" the Potions Master asked her, desperation in his voice. "You play with life- as if it were-"

            "I don't speak lightly," she told him, finally pulling herself to her feet and stepping out of the Star within a square, then dusting the chalk off her robes. "Do you know what it means to take a life? Inaction is just as evil as the hand wielding the knife. I have to live with that. I think you have had to, as well."

            "What is worth a life?"

            "Nothing," Hermione said sadly. "But allegiance to mother lets us save lives… that might otherwise not be saved." An idea came to her. "Professor Snape… could I speak to you a moment? Alone?"

            Snape hesitated, for perhaps a fraction of a second… then nodded. Dumbledore quietly left the room. It hurt her to watch him go.

* * *

            "I'm sorry," Hermione Granger said to him, sounding as if she meant it. "But you have to know – you'll have to watch what you say around Albus. Mother has had a hundred and thirty years to get to know how he builds his mental shields."

            "Mother can- read his mind?" Severus asked her, not quite believing.

            "Mother," she told him, "Can do anything she bloody wants to, with him. He knows this. Anything we're going to do behind mother's back has to be done without his knowledge, as well, because he'd want to help. And mother would kill him for it."

            "_We_?"

            She ducked her head. "I'd hoped – you wouldn't mind – I mean, since you already know… and Harry wouldn't be involved at all, you know-"

            "Miss Granger," he said, adopting a harsh tone, "If you even mention Potter again-"

            Hermione held up a hand. "I didn't mean to, Professor, I'm sorry."

            She'd apologized to him twice in the last minute or so. Severus was rather astounded by this. After all, Hermione Granger had a reputation for being right about _everything_. However, he rather thought he'd never really known her before she'd saved his life. Certainly, he'd never thought she'd keep a secret from _Potter_, of all people… "Does he know about you?"

            "No. No one does, except Dumbledore, my parents, and – Madam Dowling. She's dead now." She closed her eyes – a brief expression of grief flitted across her face. "You do understand what Voldemort will do, if he ever finds out I'm a Sibyll? He'll hunt me down. And kill me." She reached to the collar of her dress, found the chain of her necklace, and pulled it over her head. "Take this."

            He looked at the thing again – saw what he had seen the last time – same innocuous thing. "Why?"

            "Destroy it," Hermione Granger told him. The anger in her eyes frightened Severus, even though he knew it wasn't directed at him.

            "But won't you need it?"

            She turned away from him suddenly, kicked at the piles of ash on the floor. "You don't know what mother's done. You'll never understand. You're lucky, Professor. Never mind about helping me – it's too dangerous. Go your own way. I wish you well."

            "_No._" She glanced toward him, wonderingly. "Miss Granger – you don't mean to say that what you're about to do is safer for you than it is for me? When this mother person could, potentially, get inside your head?"

            "She wouldn't kill me. I – don't think so. Anyway, it's my battle. I shouldn't have troubled you. Go back to your laboratory, Professor. I can do it myself."

            "No," he repeated, firmly. She was only a girl, after all, a headstrong, impetuous Gryffindor –

            Who was better-read than half the faculty, and certainly smarter than three-quarters of it.

            "I don't trust you to do this on your own," Severus said at last.

            Hermione narrowed her eyes at him. "Very well."

            She walked out of the room, giving the door just the slightest hint of a slam. A Gryffindor, all right.

            He realized then that he still had her necklace. The fire opals sparkled in his hand.


	11. Beggars Can't Be Choosers Chapter Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beggars Can't Be Choosers

Beggars Can't Be Choosers

by Verity

Chapter Ten

_September 9, 1997_

_            A small farm in the south of France rests quietly below a menacing, ancient ruin of a castle. Soft green fields spread out before the castle; thick forests flank it, extending as far as the eye can see._

            In the kitchen of the whitewashed farmhouse that has seen a century or two, a tiny, tired-looking woman in her late thirties sits. Her prematurely graying gold hair is tied back from her face in a bun; her brown eyes are soft and weary. She is Nameless, forgotten amidst the ravages of time.

_            The Lamp-Bearer comes down the stairway, into the hallway, and then into the kitchen. She carries two cloth-swaddled bundles, and an aubergine cape is draped over her thin shoulders. _

_            "Maman?" she says to the faded woman at the table._

_            "Why only the Witch of the Lamp?" asks the Lamp-Bearer's Nameless mother, as her daughter gently gives one of the bundles to her._

_            The Lamp-Bearer's mouth tightens in something like a grimace. "We were lucky to have had three months. The Hand of Power knows I have born him an heir, but he knows nothing of the Witch. If I can keep her safe, at least… I will not have failed so horribly. Go to the castle, Maman. Madam Dowling has come to watch over you for the night. She's warded it for you. _He _will not have you, nor will he have me or my son without a fight."_

_            "You're so young!" Sorrow and fear are evident in her mother's eyes._

_            "I don't care," says the Lamp-Bearer. "The boys are already at the castle; Magdalena took them up." She unfastens her cape with one hand, drops it on a chair. The baby in her arms wails, and she rocks and coos to him until he is quiet._

_            "That's Henry's uniform. _Les Aurors Française_ – isn't that a bit much, dear?"_

_            The billowing white shirt is too large; it is sliding off one of the Lamp-Bearer's shoulders, and it is belted tightly at the waist. The black leather pants, however, hug her slender hips and legs like a second skin. The Lamp-Bearer looks as though she has filled out a little, though only enough to make her slenderness less bony._

_            "It hides my wand, Maman." The Lamp-Bear pats her side._

_            The Nameless woman turns away so that the Lamp-Bearer cannot see the tears running down her face. "You're not going to come back, are you, Lamp-Bearer?"_

_            "No," the Lamp-Bearer agrees sadly._

* * *

            Severus woke to the sound of feet on stone, whispering past his window. He was not quite sure how the sound dragged him from a sound sleep; the window was open, but her tread was almost soundless…

            He leapt from the bed, hastily wrapped a dressing-robe around himself, and went to the window. Hermione had stopped six or seven feet on, at the corner – the sight of the empty air beyond the ledge made his stomach lurch. He'd always had a thing about heights…

            She turned a little so that he could see her face – her eyes were open, blank. She was utterly still as her honey hair, unbound, flew around her; the thin, oversized white t-shirt she wore fluttered about her knees.

            The moonlight bleached her hair white…

            He was jolted back in his mind to a memory of years before – Luck's hair shining in the moonlight, Luck's silver eyes wide open, Luck on a balcony. _"I won't let him get away with any more…"_ Such a terribly calm little voice. The balcony, such an old balcony – how could she have been so stupid? – collapsed beneath her…

            Then and now merged, suddenly, a flashback sliding seamlessly into the present – he found himself on the balcony with her, Hermione, Luck, all the same, really- grabbing her by the wrists, the cool breeze, gentle and innocuous, blowing her hair into tangles. So close to the edge he was almost paralyzed. Severus never knew how he got her through the window.

            Hermione came back into herself for the most part after a few moments, and shook her head as if denying something. "Oh… I'm sorry," she said after a moment, crossing her legs beneath her. She was sitting on the carpet. "Did I worry you?"

            "Well, I did drag you in off the balcony," he snapped at her.

            She tilted her head, looking confused. "You didn't have to. I was perfectly safe."

            "Out on the edge of a balcony in the wind? Out of your mind?"

            "Never mind, Professor. I – it's late. I should be getting back to my room." Hermione stood up and walked to the window. "Thanks -" she added, as an afterthought. "But – I can take care of myself."

            "When mother has her hold on you?"

            "Is that what you thought? No – she hasn't – Lamp Bearer opened the door for me, this time."

            She was through the window before Severus could say anything.

            "Luck," he whispered, certain now of the presence that hung in the air. A breath of wind blew past his lips, and he wondered – what had she sacrificed to come back?

* * *

_She slips through the stone walls, away from Orion Tower, calling upon the dream world for the knowledge of the pathways. The tug towards the lake grows stronger – she will have to go back soon, she knows._

_Up to Gryffindor Tower – sleeping boy, The Boy Who Lived. His eyes are closed. She waves her transparent hands over him, weaving a dream web, spinning in the dream world, locking in the truth, doing as dream wraiths do._

_            He cries out in his sleep. Let him have nightmares. Let him know the cost._

_            She goes to the lake, finally – the moon is almost half-full, mirrored in the lake. It's a beautiful lake. All the dream wraiths at Hogwarts are drawn here. They know what will happen._

_            The Boy's parents are here, sitting together on the shore, silent as always. The Knight is leaning against a tree, looking out over the gently rippling water. The Raven is keening and moaning on the rocks. Only the Knight is close enough to the edge of the dream world for her to talk to. They both have missions._

_            **Cedric**, she says to the Knight, who prefers his born-name._

_            **Lamp-Bearer**, he says to her, with a gentlemanly nod of the head. _

_            **Has he come down yet?** she asks._

_            **No. But he will.** The Knight is silent for a moment. **I can feel the tide pulling stronger now. She won't survive if mother can break her. Nor will they.**_

_            **They'll survive.**_

_            **Sometimes I wonder why we wait**, the Knight remarks tiredly. _

_            She turns to the young man, lets her ghostly hand rest against his equally insubstantial shoulder. **We wait out of love**, she says at last. **Because to do otherwise would be a crime.**_

_            A moment or an hour – time is so peculiar – passes in the dream world. Finally the Guardian of the Lamp appears._

_            "Hello?" he asks, looking nervous. "Who is it?"_

_            The shift to something more solid is difficult – she can only leave so much of her wraith-self behind. Her voice echoes around the lake, a sibilant murmur. "I am Lamp Bearer."_

_            "You!" the Guardian exclaims. His silver eyes glitter in the moonlight. "I thought you were a dream."_

_            "No," she whispers, "No. More than that…"_


	12. Beggars Can't Be Choosers Chapter Eleven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beggars Can't Be Choosers

Beggars Can't Be Choosers

by Verity

Chapter Eleven

_September 15, 1997_

            Hermione stayed put when Potions ended; Harry gave her a questioning look, which she answered with a shrug that could have meant anything. She'd tell him some excuse later.

            She watch calmly as Professor Snape moved about the classroom with a peculiar sort of grace, performing routine tasks, and deliberately ignoring her. He was rather like a cat, she thought, and this thought surprised her; Crookshanks (who was currently rooming with the pretty Siamese Parvati had adopted the previous year) had a sweet nature and a sense of honor about him, but one could hardly call him _graceful_. But then, she wasn't really likening Professor Snape to Crookshanks – more like a male version of Parvati's Siamese, aloof, haughty, and dignified-

            "Miss Granger?"

            Her head jerked up abruptly and she turned to look at him; she'd almost had her nose in the remains of her Desiccation Draught. Odd. "Um," she said, in a manner that was not nearly so decorous as she'd intended. "I had been meaning to ask you; do you mean to sound that appalling nickname to the heavens all night long tonight as well? Because you won't get her to talk to you that way, you know, and I got hardly any sleep, and I have an Arithmancy exam tomorrow-"

            "Pause for breath, Miss Granger," Snape instructed her. He was struggling, Hermione noted perplexingly, not to smile. She blinked, and exhaled. "Your point?"

            "Please shut up," she said fervently. To hell with decorum. She'd be lucky if she stayed awake past lunch.

            "That's extremely disrespectful, Miss Granger."

            "Desperate times call for desperate measures?"

            "Are you quite well?"

            Hermione considered various answers to this question before she realized it was serious. She flushed. "I can take care of myself, thank you, Professor, if only you will _cease_ trying to summon Lamp-Bearer from the dead. You won't be able to, anyhow, as she's not dead, and for a number of other reasons beside the point."

            "_Not dead?_" he asked her incredulously. "I _watched_ her die, and I'd have to say otherwise."

            She sighed, buried her face in her hands. "Her body was willing but her soul was not. She's in the dream world." Snape was silent; she took this as consent for her to continue. "It's- kind of between here and where most people go when they die. If they don't become ghosts. She's not a ghost. She's something more and something less."

            "How?" His voice was harsh.

            She looked up at him, thinking, there's a lot about Professor Snape I never knew. "More because – when people go – oh, it's hard to describe – they become part of an all, something that's part of everything living. And the dream world – it holds everything that ever was and everything that ever can be. But she's less because you'll never be able to speak to her, not unless you're part of her mission, and you're not. She's said."

            "Are _you_ a part of her mission?"

            Hermione shook her head. "No."

            "Then how are you able to talk to her?" As he'd spoken, he'd crossed the room to loom over her – she was still sitting behind her lab table, her ingredients neatly sorted and all ready to go back in her bag.

            It was a question that had bothered her from the first time Madam Dowling had asked her – she'd been four then, just learning the ways of silence and meditation that had guarded her until she was ready to begin her vows. The dream wraiths knew, of course, had always known…

            "How did you know Lamp-Bearer's Name?" she asked him.

            "She told me. Many years ago."

            "Do you know in which world that Name had power over her above all other?"

            Snape shook his head. This felt so odd – as if their roles had been reversed – and Hermione found that she rather liked it, being in control when everything had spun outwards – everything else –

            "This world," she said. "Do you know why I would rather not answer your question now?"

            "You don't trust me."

            "I don't trust anyone." She started packing up her bag. This was silly – her saying this to Snape, of all people – even if some inner voice that she knew wasn't mother was telling her that he _was_ her mentor, he _was_ her teacher, this was perfectly reasonable…

            "Not even Potter?" Hermione looked up – he hadn't gone away, was still hanging over her, tall and imposing but not threatening, she realized.

            "I can't afford that." Her voice was bitter.

            "I understand."

            "You can't," she said sharply. "I don't know why I even bothered talking to you. Scream your lungs out for all I care. I'll put a Silencing Charm on my room." In one rapid, uncalculated movement, she stood up, her rucksack slug over her shoulder, and found herself roughly three inches from Snape's nose.

            "Sleep well, Miss Granger," was all he said before he softly kissed her on the forehead.

            She wasn't up to confronting the swirl of conflicting emotions that greeted this kiss. So she bolted.

* * *

It was beyond stupid. It was tactless, thoughtless, completely inappropriate.

But, Merlin, the look in her eyes…

The rug in Severus Snape's office was worn and faded from the pacing of past years; he suspected it would soon produce a hole and promptly be replaced by Winky. Damned house-elf. He continued to pace, hands clasped behind his back, brow furrowed in thought.

Hermione's eyes had been so lonely – so cold – she had reminded him of Luck then. Luck had never learned how to trust – not him, not even her own family – and where had it gotten her? Dead. Physically, at least. He couldn't let it happen again.

No, never, that had been utterly inappropriate, kissing her on the forehead, even in such an innocent manner – Hermione Granger, a _student_… a student with Luck's eyes.

            He was saved from any further ponderings by a knock on the door. "Professor?" It didn't sound like Hermione.

            Severus took a seat behind his desk. "Come in."

            Draco Malfoy entered the room, looking rather ill. His skin was paler than usual; shadows had come to rest beneath his eyes. Compared to Malfoy, Severus reflected humorlessly, he himself probably looked in the peak of health.

            "I need to have some Dreamless Sleep potion," the boy told him, sounding too desperate to employ his usual drawling sarcasm. "I've been having dreams. Nightmares."

* * *

It's been a while since I've done a thanks sections – thanks to all the people who have reviewed, both on **The Site That Must Not Be Named** &amp; **WIKTT**! I'm planning to do a big listing of everyone at the end of Beggars (I'm aiming for the end of May.)

_The Complete Idiot's Guide to Wicca and Witchcraft_ should be available in your local Borders. That's where I got mine.

I apologize for lack of snogs, BTW.  I was planning for chapter five… but as you can see, the characters had other ideas. *grin* The kiss in this chapter is intentional homage to Laurie R. King's fantastic _The Beekeeper's Apprentice_ and sequels as well to Flourish's equally fabulous fanfic Coda: Hero.

Verity


	13. Beggars Can't Be Choosers Chapter Twelve [now with correct French!]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beggars Can't Be Choosers

Beggars Can't Be Choosers

by Verity

Chapter Twelve

            Draco swam back in his mind as he began to relate the dream, reliving it as he repeated it to the head of Slytherin house…

            _She is beautiful, he thinks, not beautiful like Pansy Parkinson's unnatural artifice, but beautiful in the true and faithful sense of the word. He doesn't want to fuck her; just fall down at her feet and worship for all that he is worth._

_            It's been a long time since he could look at a girl like that. Like she was the only thing in his world._

_            She – he doesn't know her name, but that doesn't matter – beckons to him. She wears an airy dress of blue so pale it's white. She has hair like his, eyes like his. A Malfoy. **Follow me.** Her voice is sweet and friendly._

_            And so he does – and before he knows it, he's at the edge of the Lake, again. He always thinks of it as the Lake. He's always feared water._

_            **Don't be afraid**, she tells him, burying her hands in hair to bring his face up to hers. **Don't be afraid. You're always so afraid, I can tell.**_

_            **Of course I'm afraid**, he whispers up to her, dropping to his knees as she pushes him away. She's not gentle about it. Still a young goddess – but she has all the time in the world to learn, doesn't she? _

_            Her blond hair would fall to her waist, though a silver ribbon ties it up. **An ice goddess**, she says. **I'm as cold and cruel as can be. Aren't I, Guardian of the Lamp?**_

_            **What?** The name resonates in him, somehow – as if it is truer than the one that was given to him at birth._

_            **You're right**, the goddess says absently. **I called you after your uncle, whom you never knew. He died rather young.** _

_            **How did you know me?** Surely he would have recognized her, known her. Of course, something in him does recognize her, at a gut level; the something that forces him to his knees every time he looks at her. He feels that every cutting remark he's ever made, to every girl, has denied him the right to meet her on his feet. She is pure, faultless._

_            **No!** she shouts suddenly. **You can't think that of me. You have to know – I made flawed decisions. I destroyed you. I made you what you are. I thought I knew everything.**_

_            **You know my thoughts.**_

_            **I know everything, now. Don't call me a goddess.**_

**_            What should I call you then?_**

**_            A girl. _**_She pauses for a moment. **Do you know why I can talk to you?**_

_            **No**. It's something that's been bothering him. These aren't like normal dreams._

_            The girl walks over to him, studies his face carefully as if trying to find something familiar in it. **Because I created you, Guardian. I made you, and I can break you. I need to know how far he's gone, how much he's done.**_

_            **Are you Narcissa?** He's none too certain about this. Narcissa's a spineless, unbeautiful creature, incapable of inspiring awe._

_            Then again, his father might not be able to inspire awe, but he does fairly well with fear._

_            She laughs – it's a nasty, fragmented little laugh, the way his father laughs sometimes. He never expected the nastiness from her._

_            **No, baby**, she says, running a sharp nail along his jaw line, just firmly enough to draw a little blood. **That's the Malfoy in me**, she explains. **Narcissa never had any Malfoy in her. Narcissa never had any Name to begin with. I wasn't destined to be the latest in a long line of Nameless Malfoy wives. Eventually, you'll understand that.**_

**_            What?_**

**_            Ask Walker of Two Worlds or the Man-Who-Stoppers-Death_**_. And suddenly, she kisses him on the cheek. **You must go now. I have other things to attend to**._

* * *

            "That was all she said," Lucius's son finished. "I remembered… from the speech our first year – you _are_ the Man-Who-Stoppers-Death?"

            Severus nodded, moving his head a bare fraction of an inch. The boy's relief was palpable. "And what is your answer to _her_ inquiry?"

            "Inquiry?" Draco Malfoy looked confused.

            "How much," Severus said slowly, "are you your father's son?"

            The boy pondered this for almost a full minute, looking around the room, anywhere but at Severus's face. Finally, he said, "However much she wants me to be. All, or not at all. _Who is she?_"

            "You don't really want to hear this, Malfoy," Severus told him, watching the boy's face carefully. "Do you?"

            "No," said Draco Malfoy, "but I rather think I have to."

"Take a seat-" Severus gestured to the chair in front of his desk, and then began his own retelling and reliving… "I met Lux LeMalfois roughly thirty years ago…"

* * *

_A stream in the south of France. A girl about the age of five is wading in it, trying to catch tadpoles. Her blonde hair is pulled back into a ponytail and secured with a silver ribbon; there is a smile on her lips and in her silvery eyes. _

_            A boy comes up to her. He's about eight, with chin-length black hair. "What are you doing?" His accent is distinctly British._

_            "Catting tapoes," she replies uncertainly with a thick French accent. _

_            The boy mulls this over for a minute. "__Tu attrapes des tetards?"_

_            "Oui." The girl nods happily. "Tu parles Français?"_

_            "__Un peu. Je m'appelles Severus. Tu t'appelles comment?" He extends his hand._

_She grasps it firmly and shakes it. " Lux."_

* * *

_            "Lucius Malfoy is your _cousin_?" Severus asks her. Lux, who he's taken to calling Luck, and who's just turned fourteen, is peacefully curled up by the stream with a book. She looks up. "Why didn't I know this?"_

            "Because, Sevvie dear, you're only here for summer holidays, and anyway, he's not technically my cousin, he's my cousin and then some. Maman is his father's fifth cousin and his mother's sister. Does that make sense?" She returns to her perusal of Heart of Darkness cheerfully.

_            "In a strange, twisted, inbred, Malfoy way, I suppose," he says, grabbing her book away from her. "Pay _attention_ to me, Luck."_

            "La realite et toi ca fait deux n'est ce pas?" She seizes the book and swats him with it. "Let me remind you that not only am I LeMalfois, I am not an inbred émigré swine who does not deserve even the bastardized Anglican version of the name."

_            "Cretine."_

_            "Imbecile." Luck smiles peacefully. It's a happy afternoon._

* * *

_            "I told you to come with me then! Not now!" Severus shouts to her. She's escaped, Merlin only knows how, and he's got to get her out of here, out of Malfoy Manor. He forces himself not to think of what she must have gone through her, forces down the murderous rage that engulfs him whenever he thinks of Lucius._

_            Luck tilts her head – there's something terribly wrong with her, and he doesn't under stand quite what – her silver eyes are open, but they're not seeing anything. Her blond hair floats around her; her blue-white dress drifts around her gaunt body. She was eighteen the day before.  She stepped backward, through the open French doors, onto an old, disreputable balcony. "I won't let him get away with any more…" He sees the bruises, bruises on her frail neck, knowing that there must be more bruises beneath the dress…_

_            The balcony collapses beneath her, and she falls, falls so far… She doesn't scream as her body hits the rocks…_

* * *

            "That's all I know," Professor Snape concluded, looking at him expectantly. Draco cleared his throat.

            "Oh." It was all he could think of – it didn't even begin to sum up – "Did you love her?"

            "As a friend? Very much. Beyond that – we were both far too young and far too old, if that answers any of your questions."

            "Why did my father have her? She seemed so – powerful."

            "I don't know," Snape said, looking at the ceiling. "I can only think she came to him, for reasons I don't know and don't particularly want to."

            "Do you know who Walker of Two Worlds is? Would she know?"

            Snape's face seemed to harden, though almost imperceptibly. Draco thought it might have even been a figment of his imagination, produced by the late hour and the lack of sleep.

            "Let's just say," the Potions master told him, "That I have my suspicions."

* * *

First, just to be clear, those were Snape's memories, of which he was telling Draco; Hermione has not seen them. Of course, that doesn't mean she doesn't know about them. ;)

I don't speak French, have never spoken French, and am unlikely to take up the language in the future. *grin*Being a Latin geek and all. Please feel free to correct my French if it's hideous. The only phrase worth a translation is Lamp-Bear/Luck/Lux's "_La realite_" comment to Snape, which means "Reality and you don't get on, do they?"

[Note: Thanks and worship go to the marvelous French person known only as reader who took the time to fix my French, the quality of which is only slightly better than _merde._ If said marvelous French person would be so kind as to contact me at zer0_ for future translations, they would be a diety above par. *grin*]

Also, I've now an MSN community set up for updates (only.) It's

.com/beggarscantbechoosers/

Verity


	14. Beggars Can't Be Choosers Chapter Thirteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beggars Can't Be Choosers

Beggars Can't Be Choosers

by Verity

Chapter Thirteen

            She slipped up from the loving sea of sleep reluctantly, in slow, steady ripples, pulled forward by a velvet voice that sought her out among the warm ocean…

            "Miss Granger?"

            Hermione sat up in the bed and pushed open the curtains, to be greeted by the sight of Snape's face in her fireplace. Inwardly, she grimaced; outwardly, she allowed herself a small frown. "Professor?" she asked sleepily. "What…?"

            "I have a student who needs to know something about Lux LeMalfois for… personal reasons. I assume you may be more informed than I about certain aspects of her life." The Potions master looked tired… weary, even, and sad. But knowing what she knew of Lamp-Bearer, it didn't seem an odd attitude for him to have.

            She nodded; this, at least, she could handle. "Is it the Guardian or the Witch? If the student doesn't know… I'm afraid I can't tell you. It wouldn't be my place."

            "The Guardian," Snape said quickly.

            "Good." She smiled. The boy, then; she rather thought the girl was still in France. "I'll be down shortly, Professor."

            The fire in the hearth extinguished itself with a faint _Poof!_ as Hermione climbed from the bed. She closed her eyes briefly, once she was standing, and rubbed at them with the back of her hand, feeling achy, unsteady – a little tense.

            She needed the upper hand here. She knew how to get it.

            Swiftly, she drew the pink t-shirt she was wearing over her head, then neatly folded it and placed it atop her dresser. It hadn't been the look she was aiming for. The one she wanted required a garment rather in the bottom of her armoire…

            At last, Hermione found the silky, transparent white slip of a nightgown and slipped it on; atop that she added her woolen school overrobe, cinching it neatly at the waist with its belt. A small portion of the silky nightgown was still visible. She'd always liked playing with contrasts.

            She ran her brush through her hair a few times before gathering up her wand and murmuring the appropriate spell – "_Ignatius._" – while she reached up with her free hand for the whitish Floo powder that powered the school's internal networks. "Professor Snape's office," she said, stepping through.

            The floor that met her feet was stone, and cold, a rather drastic change from the carpets that littered her wooden one; damn, she'd forgotten shoes. Not as if they would make much difference in the perpetually icy dungeons.

            Draco Malfoy started, as if he hadn't expected to see her – but he must have, Hermione reasoned, Snape had called from here. "_You're_ Walker of Two Worlds? A _Mudblood_?"

            There were times, she thought, that one's Sibyll status was meant to be shoved in the face of unbelievers. This was one of them. "You," Hermione said in a sharp, crisp tone that barely masked her desire to cause painful and grievous damage to the classmate sitting in front of her, "Do not call Sibyll Mudbloods. _Ever_."

            "_What_-"

            "I know the name of your mother," she said, this time in a light, teasing voice. Draco Malfoy shut up. She had the feeling she'd just confirmed his suspicions.

            She looked up from Malfoy's face to see Snape looming over her, again, looking confused.

            "Don't you _know_?"

            "Yes," he said, quizzical. "It's Narcissa."

            "Narcissa's never been able to have kids. Has she, Malfoy?"

            Hermione knew she was being cruel, oh, so cruel; wished the words had never come from her mouth. "No," Malfoy answered her, but the look in Snape's eyes dismissed the remark from her conscience. The pain, the sorrow, the look of betrayal.

            "It wasn't her choice," she said, trying to explain. She was too afraid to reach out a hand; she let her words try to comfort him. "He'd forced her, said he'd – kill her sister, her little brothers. Her mother, too. You knew her. She would never have let anything like that happen, not when it was in her power to stop it. She was very impetuous. At sixteen you think you're invincible."

            "Oh." Snape turned away, looked to Malfoy. He seemed relieved, though, which she was thankful for.

            "How did you know that?" Malfoy asked her, beseechingly. This attitude was rather an improvement for him, she noted. Lamp-Bearer had that effect on people.

            "Your mother was a vowed Sibyll – she could walk in the dream world. As you can, when she sends for you. As I can. But that's not part of being Sibyll, for me."

            "You're a seer," Snape said flatly. "You couldn't have mentioned this in the first place?"

            "I'm _not_ a seer," she said, putting a special emphasis on the negative. "Margaret _Trelawney_ is a seer. I walk in two worlds, that's all. One just has no notions of time."

            "Trelawney can't see past her exceedingly short nose," Snape objected.

            "My point exactly. So, Malfoy, what is it you want to know?"

* * *

            Draco exhaled slowly, some part of him still not quite believing he was here, in Snape's office, _asking_ a Mudblood for something. "Well," he said, trying to sound more grudging, "Er, how come I don't remember her?"

            Granger looked up at him, arms crossed in a stern manner. Sometime during the last few moments she'd perched on the chair in front of Snape's desk, turning it around to face him and the Professor. He wondered if she knew what a perfect view of her upper half she was giving them from there… "She died when you weren't quite three, you know. Before then she was kept in the dungeons. A prisoner. When you were two months old your father came for you – she was in France, then. She knew she couldn't stop him."

            He opened his mouth to speak, but she wasn't done. "She took a potion – I don't know what it was, exactly, but she was much more talented in that area than I – but it assures even now that you will always be loyal to her interests. It can be counteracted. But you should know that."

            Draco felt very cold, all of the sudden. "_What_ does it do?"

            "Oh, it can't _control_ you. It's just her little way of playing head games with Lucius Malfoy. He knows what she can do if she likes – it would be rather painful and ultimately fatal. But he's made the mistake of thinking she's dead." Granger rubbed at the back of neck, yawning – his eyes followed the clean lines of her throat, and then Professor Snape's gaze, and he understood what she was doing. He almost grinned. Very Slytherin of her. "I don't really want to know what you think of this now. I'm rather tired, and I think Lamp-Bearer – that's her Name, you know – would have done a much better job explaining this to you. Go talk to her, and if you think you can deal with the fact I'm a Mudblood – well, there are things that need doing, and only the Guardian of the Lamp can do them. That's you. Send me – no, send Ginny Weasley an owl, and ask her to meet with you when it's convenient. She'll let me know."

            "I think that's enough for this evening," Snape said then, very firmly. "Good evening, Mr. Malfoy."

            "Thank you, Professor. I don't think – I don't think I'll be requiring the Dreamless Sleep potion."

            "I rather though you wouldn't."

            As Draco closed the door behind him, he heard Granger's voice say something, and the Potions master's answering lower tones. He wondered what was going on _there_-

            But he had the feeling it would probably not be a good idea to ask.

* * *

Apologies about the wait for this chapter – I've had a hideous cold and then allergies for the past two weeks, both of which were highly tedious/annoying. I've also been working a very twisted bit of Snape/Hermione entitled Switch – it's up on my author page, if anyone's interested. ;)

Verity


	15. Beggars Can't Be Choosers Chapter Fourteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beggars Can't Be Choosers

Beggars Can't Be Choosers

by Verity

Chapter Fourteen

            "He'll do," she said to him as Malfoy shut the door. "Did you understand?"

            "Somewhat," Severus answered her, but she wasn't paying much attention to him. She looked lost in thought. "Somewhat," he repeated.

            Hermione shook her head, sighed, bit her lip. "No… you can't. It was silly of me…"

            "What?" He walked around to her and laid a hand on her shoulder, trying to ignore the fact that she was tired and he could see a good deal more of her through the opening of her robe than she surely intended…

            "Do you know how it feels…" she said slowly, drawing out the words until they were less of a question than a thought spoken aloud, "to know that the only person who has been where you're heading has been dead fifteen years? And to know that you're the only person who can do anything at all…"

            "The first, no. The second -  yes."

            She tilted her head up to meet his eyes. "You were a Death Eater, weren't you?"

            "I…" he began, aghast, horrified. The firelight flickered, reflected in her eyes - warm, intense, smiling brown -

            "Mother." Hermione answered his unspoken question. "How did you think I knew – when I saved your life?"

            Severus turned away from her, pacing toward the fireplace. It was not a topic that they had ever entirely addressed, and not one he was eager to – knowing what he owed her. A life-debt. Just as binding as Pettigrew's to Potter. "Do not discuss it," he snapped at her, regretting his temper the moment the words were out of his mouth.

            She narrowed her eyes at him, but did nothing more than glare.

            "I will _not_ take this attitude from a student."

            "Is that all I am to you?" Hermione Granger asked him, those dangerous eyes fixed on his – she stood up then, not bothering with straightening her robes. That act alone told him more than her words. Hermione Granger had never tolerated sloppiness.

            She had more lenience for necessary evils.

            "I am Walker of Two Worlds." This she said as she crossed the floor of his office to stand in front of him. Her eyes burned into his. "_Do – you – **understand**_?"

            With her dainty, icy cold hand, she grabbed his warmer one (the change in temperature surprising her a little, Severus had mind enough to note) and covered it with hers.

            **_I didn't fall_**_, Lamp-Bearer's pale pink lips whisper, **I jumped.**_

            "I understand." The earth has stopped its incessant spinning for the moment.

            "I'm sorry," she apologized, leaning over (to kiss him on the cheek?) but that wasn't where her lips landed; and for a moment they just stood there, locked in silence, in the wee hours of the morning.

            "_Get out_," he hissed at her, and she went, her eyes no longer vivid and compelling but wide and sad.

            Better for her, he thought to himself later that night. Better for all of us, in the end.

* * *

            She weaves nets of safety over the sleeping girl, keeping her tethered in the dream world for as long as she can, keeps her safe from mother. She uses Walker's tears and her own to make the spider webs fast to the mind that was the dream world, a spinning vortex of flowing and jolting thoughts, what-ifs, what-had-beens.

_            The Knight helps her, and she thanks him. They join their hands over Walker's dreaming body, and speak:_

_            **May she be forever protected in sleep, she who Walks in the Two Worlds and Leads those of the Lamp.**_

_            When they are back at the lake, he asks her, over the Raven's piercing cries, **Do you really think mother would try something like that?**_

_            **Mother would do anything to return to this earth, Cedric**, she says quietly. **Never underestimate her.**_

_            They look out over the lake, silver in moonlight, faint ripples skimming across its surface. The monster beneath the surface resettles itself and goes back to sleep._

_            **Are you sure?** The Knight isn't referring to her previous comment, as she well knows._

_            **Yes. I did a dangerous thing then, you understand. I entrusted them to her care…** she sighs. **I've done what I can do. It has to be enough. It **_**has_ to._**

* * *

_            A wind blows across the snow, whistling between the barren, fallow trees that are scattered across the graveyard. The Witch of the Lamp kneels in the snow, her bony white fingers tightly tangled in a rosary, chanting a prayer for the soul of the dead woman whose body lies beneath her feet._

_            The metal and crystal of the centuries-old rosary cuts into her hands, but this does not deter her; she continues on, faltering occasionally, with her litany of devotion. The beads of Christ lacerate her tender skin, and droplets of red blood trickle over her white clenched hands. Tears glisten on her cheeks._

_            "O my Jesus, have mercy on us, forgive us our sins, save us from the fires of hell. Take all souls to heaven, especially those most in need of thy mercy.__..." she begins again, finally choking on a sob and throwing herself across the cold, cold gravestone in front of her._

_            Her sorrows have no end, her tears would fill the widest ocean. "Mama!" she cries, "How could you leave me?"_

_            After the Witch has quieted somewhat, and is merely lying in the snow, dolorous and silent, a woman walks up over the hill behind which the graveyard lies. "Witch," the Peacock tells her, laying a woolen cape across her shoulders, "Tears will not raise your grandmother. Words will not, either. Come home."_

_            "Then I will take a vow of silence," the Witch of the Lamp says, her voice like a knife, acute and vicious. "Until she has been avenged."_

_            And the Peacock cannot get another word from her._

* * *

Apologies again about the wait! ;) Switch II (Ask) is now up at **The Site That Must Not Be Named** &amp; **WIKTT**. I hope to get out the next chapter in a more expedient manner – the past month or so I've been ill, coping with Familial Crises, and busy with evil!schoolwork, but hopefully all of those things have been remedied.

Verity


	16. Author's Note

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _ **Stolen Kisses** _

Note: this is *not* Beggars 15, which I owe you. However, I'm currently undergoing the rather vigorous examinations at my institute of learning (AP Bio is hell; don't let anyone talk you into taking it as a freshman in HS *grin*), Switch III is in the works, and also the novel-muse has been hyperactive of late. I'm taking a brief hiatus from Beggars right now; the next chapter will be up on June 1, and succeeding chapters should be up once or twice per week. Switch III should be out by May 26, if you're reading that. What follows is a cookie for Chapter 18/19, content subject to future warpings and tweaks. ;) *hugs* to all you reading! - Verity -------------------------------------------------------------------------

_ **Stolen Kisses** _

He woke up to the scent of lilies.

It was not a smell Severus was accustomed to being awakened by, which caused him some moments of deep consternation. But it was a pleasant enough smell, and he had no memory of the plant in any but the most benign of potions, strongly suggesting a similar benevolence might be attributed to its fragrance.

Of course, it soon occured to him that the pleasant scent must have been emanating from something, and that his arms seemed to be wrapped around an object far warmer and more substantial than his pillow. He opened his eyes, curious, and promptly shut them again.

A few minutes passed, and he became fairly sure he was not likely to awake from the nightmare, as it were, anytime soon. On the contrary, he was very aware of the situation's reality, and of the fact that his arms were wrapped around the person he least wanted in his bed at the moment. Worse yet - he couldn't help but be entralled by it.

Her t-shirt had drifted up as she slept to a degree that meant his arms were against bare, soft skin; lily-scented hair was attached to a head that fit comfortably into the hollow between his neck and his collarbone. She slept so soundly that he knew she was still in the dreamworld, safe from mother's reach.

He shifted slightly and she half-turned in his arms, her lips parted just a little, tempting and inviting... she would kill him if she awoke, he knew. But it had been so long.

She didn't wake up.

Her lips were chapped and warm and tasted of sleep, but that was all right; they were lips, and they were willing. He wondered what she was dreaming of as he kissed her.


	17. Author's Note [further]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am continuing to work on Switch &amp; various asides, so if you're looking for me, I will be happily frolicking with WeHaveIssues!Snape&amp;Hermione over on author page: .?userid=159457 or at my website: .org/

I'm sorry to say that it seems the Beggars muse has gone on an extended holiday to Tahiti and is unlikely to be back anytime soon. Thanks for sticking around, though, and if it's any consolation, yes, Snape does get the girl in the end. ;)

I am continuing to work on Switch &amp; various asides, so if you're looking for me, I will be happily frolicking with WeHaveIssues!Snape&amp;Hermione over on author page: .?userid=159457 or at my website: .org/

*huggles* to all you who have been so nice about reading, and thanks for your kind reviews.

\- Verity, 07.21.2002


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